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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24833623">be something you love and understand</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rick and Morty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Apocalypse, Canon-Typical Violence, Hand Jobs, Intimacy, M/M, Survival</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:54:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,575</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24833623</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why us?” was the first thing he remembered himself saying. Rick rubbed his own nose, met Morty’s prey animal stare with what Morty recognized as the face he made when he was trying to be brave for the both of them. </p><p>“Because you and I, we’re the only ones who can handle it,” Rick said, and he pulled Morty against his chest as if that was all he needed to hear.</p><p>--</p><p>Rick and Morty and the apocalypse.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>70</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>be something you love and understand</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rick never stopped complaining about the distinct struggle of staying inebriated in their current situation. </p><p>When they happened on an abandoned liquor store he would curl his split lip and rifle distastefully through the selection. He passed over countless labels in a decision-making process that only he understood, cursing at Morty and the empty space behind the register and the bottles in his hand. Morty had stopped trying to remind him that quiet was of the essence. They didn’t talk in dangerous places, so he figured he might as well let Rick have these infrequent, expletive-ridden rants. </p><p>“Wish I’d mutated an extra fuckin’ arm,” he grumbled to himself at the current stop. Most stores they found were cleaner than Morty expected from the movies. The undisturbed sterility was the hardest to deal with, though. It was too stagnant in the daytime, too uncanny in the night. He felt like any moment they could be crept in on. Sometimes he could imagine the prickling tension of scare chords, horror film violins stirring in the air as Rick jerked through the rows of untouched product, shit that had been sitting around for weeks and would never be restocked. If he voiced the thought, Rick would have told him he’d seen too many zombie movies and to shut up about cheap jumpscares with no narrative payoff. </p><p>Normally Rick would be thrilled with the prospect of stealing metaphorical candy from a proverbial baby. Morty had watched him do it on more than one occasion. The only time he’d pressed Rick on his newfound contempt, he’d gotten an irritated, “because real life doesn’t work like video games and we only have so much inventory space, Morty,” in response. </p><p>“There’re, there <em> were </em> plenty of games where your inventory, y’know, where it’s proportional to how much you’d be able to carry,” he’d argued, and Rick had just fixed him with a glare and looked towards the small wagon of supplies they were tugging behind them. </p><p>“You and I don’t get to level up,” was the last thing he said about the matter. Ever since that brief exchange Morty had begun assigning inventory weights to everything they carried: Rick’s flask, the extra clothes that he’d insisted on bringing with them from day one. The canteen that hung around his chest and the water bottles in the wagon. The most functional weaponry that Rick had lying around the garage (and other parts of the house). The necklace Morty wore around his wrist, wrapped up twice so it didn’t slip off. The always-loaded gun strapped to his thigh. And of course the portal gun, uncharged and out of commission, which Rick kept in his pocket on the off-chance that he could get it to work. That he could get <em> anything  </em>to work. </p><p>They always spent too long in bottle shops for Morty’s comfort. Rick was bent on finding three things: the drink that he’d enjoy reclining on the floor against the non-working coolers that were usually along the backs of the stores, the drink that he’d pour into his flask to top it off again, and the drink that he’d bring on the road with them. He’d gotten more picky about those drinks as time went on, and Morty didn’t have the resolve to remind him that they were better off on the move. Better off with Rick sober. Even though he’d spent most of his life on some level of buzz, Morty didn’t like their odds of survival if ‘enough to take the edge off’ was also enough to slow his reaction time. Dealing with Rick stone-cold sober and blistering from withdrawal wasn’t <em> ideal </em>but it was better, so much better, than Rick off his ass and screeching drunkenly at Morty about cosmic helplessness for a very horrific half an hour before he finally passed out. </p><p>They’d been there. Morty supposed he should be grateful that stage had blown over. </p><p>There wasn’t much to be grateful for but he tried to appreciate nice things when they came. Sometimes it was finding unspoiled food- most of what they ate was processed and stale and he’d come to appreciate the saccharine taste of canned fruits. Sometimes it was waking up to birdsong in the hazy gray mornings, since there was barely any other noise for the mind to fixate on. Sometimes it was the intense thrill of surviving, spattering gore on derelict pavement and thanking whoever might be listening for his life. And some rare, wonderful times it was <em> Rick</em>, terrible and angry and scared, Rick making Morty smile with a snippy observation or a syrup-laden tin of peaches or an arm around his heaving shoulders late and lonely at night. </p><p>He was just starting to feel his nerves overwrite his panic-induced calm when Rick returned to the wagon with a wide green bottle that reminded Morty of ginger ale. The label read ‘Becherovka’ in bold white letters. Morty didn’t think he could pronounce that but he added it to the inventory list that he had kept up for no particular reason, slotting it into the space that was previously taken by Rick’s now-empty bottle of Chichicapa mezcal. Before that, it was Plymouth gin. He managed a tight smile to greet Rick and leaned up against the counter. </p><p>“So… we done here?” </p><p>He could tell from the light sheen of something on Rick’s lip that they were, in fact, done there. Rick nodded anyways and motioned for the door. Morty couldn’t quite shake the guilt that came with stealing but it certainly got easier as time went on, and it was seeming less and less likely that anyone would ever be around to care again. So he plucked a Snickers from the little stand of chocolate bars on the register, tore it open and threw the noisy plastic wrapper in the garbage can by the door. </p><p>Rick just looked on, hauling their shit behind him and watching Morty eat like it was the most interesting thing he’d seen in months, years. “You’re gonna get a cavity,” he slurred quietly above the turning of the wheels. </p><p>Morty could have brought up the drinking. He could have mentioned alcohol poisoning or liver failure or hypertension. But Morty wasn’t Rick, so he just waved off the concern and finished eating, knowing it’d be some time before he got to taste caramel again. “Thanks for looking out for me, asshole,” he replied when he was done, and that was the last thing either of them said until they found an unlocked home to sleep in for the night. Morty kept his hand on his holstered gun the entire time- just to be safe. </p><p>—</p><p>He still didn’t understand what had shaken the Earth and everything on it. </p><p>He wasn’t convinced that Rick did, either, because when he asked about it his mouth just got small and worried and he tended to put down Morty’s intelligence more than usual. </p><p>“It’s geomagnetic, Morty, that’s why the power grids are out.” He put on the tone of voice he used when he was showing someone- usually Morty- just how stupid they were. It gave Morty the sense that he was physically pained by dumbing himself down. “Probably, and I’m just spitballing, here, but i-it’s, it’s probably some kind of solar flare, some stupid fucking cosmic storm.” </p><p>That explained the complete lack of electricity and the world’s constant mechanical hum that Morty hadn’t even noticed until it was replaced by absolute silence. It didn’t explain the mutated animals that aggroed them with distressing frequency. </p><p>Or, Morty thought they were animals. The distortion of the natural form was so thorough that it was hard to tell. All he knew for sure was that they screamed. At least it was easy to tell when they were coming from the shrieks they choked out of their warped mouths until they caught a bullet and <em> shut up</em>, gurgling and wheezing on the ground. Blood ‘n guts still looked and smelled the same as they always had on Earth. In the beginning Rick had always had to pull Morty away from the crime scenes they created but he was losing his patience and Morty was getting tougher. He had to be. Even so, his once-white shoes were coated in DNA evidence that made him feel bilious and alone and guilty, guilty, guilty. </p><p>He’d killed before. He didn’t know what made it so hard to shoot some Chernobyl waste runoff in the head when it was clearly antagonistic and definitely going to kill them. It was probably the permanence, though. There was nobody to clean up the bodies behind them <em> besides </em> them and nature. Morty hated thinking about the times they doubled back and encountered some rotting corpse that they’d created. The first time he’d smelled sun-baked flesh he’d immediately emptied what little was in his stomach onto the sidewalk. Rick had just handed him a bandana from his pockets and told him to cover his mouth. </p><p>Maybe it was the warning Rick had left him with on the third or fourth day; he’d saved their asses but not before wasting more bullets than he was comfortable with, and he’d scowled down at Morty where he was flat on the asphalt nursing a deep tear in his flesh. They’d hauled off to the first shelter they could find, Rick methodically sorting through their supplies for antibiotic treatment and gauze as soon as they settled. He used water from a bottle to wash off Morty’s bloody arm and slathered him with ointment until he was writhing from the sting. He only started to lecture as he was dressing the gash with willowy fabric. </p><p>“I need you to listen to me, and you need to listen closely.” The grave look he gave Morty had him nodding and sitting up straight, and he kept his arm obediently in place. “There are some things that I can’t… We don’t know, there’s no way for us to know what those things are. You have to be careful, Morty. There’s no hospital anymore. No-no-no miracles of modern medicine on- or off-planet.” Rick always chuckled bitterly when he mentioned off-planet. “I’m gonna try to, gonna figure things out, but you can’t… I just need time.” </p><p>The gaps in Rick’s ominous speech were pretty good incentive to keep Morty cautious. And the significance of Rick admitting that he didn’t know something was serious enough on its own for Morty to know he should care. He hadn’t gotten hurt again after that, but then, it’d only take one unlucky footfall and he’d be bleeding out and clawing for breath like the mutations that they left in their wake. </p><p>“What… I know about the solar flare and stuff, Rick, but what <em> are</em>, what caused <em> them</em>?” </p><p>They were trailing along in some shock-silent suburb and Morty guessed it was around three in the afternoon. Most days they spent traveling. Rick never told him what they were moving towards but he had the feeling that they were searching for an anomalous spot of electricity. They walked side by side, Morty taking a turn pulling their supplies and Rick with an almost comically oversized crossbow held at attention. </p><p>He twisted his mouth up like he was thinking. “Biological terrorism,” he hypothesized, and didn’t elaborate. </p><p>“But who would want to,” Morty started, realizing he didn’t really know enough to finish asking. </p><p>“Remind me to make you, remind me that you’re in desperate need of a lesson on the history o-of the CIA next time we come across a library.” Morty wasn’t sure what Rick was trying to imply but he took the hint to drop the conversation and shuffled quietly in step. </p><p>That night he woke up to wounded animal howling and he snapped awake, fingers shaking as he pawed around for a weapon. The first thing he got his hands on was his gun and he held it close, stalking out of the bedroom of the small house they’d taken up in and towards the noise. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he traced it back to Rick. It was viscerally wrong to see Rick on his knees, body curled up in obvious pain and wracked with sobs that were impossible to ignore, to the point that he wondered if he’d been tricked by the low light. The complete murk of nighttime was surprisingly engulfing when there was no artificial light to offset it, but he was getting better at picking out forms in the dark and he’d recognize his Rick anywhere. </p><p>Morty could have turned around without incident, but he couldn’t decide if it was worse to acknowledge what was happening or to leave Rick alone in his current state. Rest was getting harder to come by. His mind swam with thoughts of ‘wrong choice’ and ‘go back to bed’ and ‘don’t touch him, he’s dangerous’, and he ignored them all as he tucked his legs underneath him when he settled next to Rick on the carpeted floor. </p><p>“I fucking hate the zombie apocalypse,” groaned Rick. Morty brought a hand to his back, rubbed his palm into the dip in his weary spine. </p><p>“Not quite,” he corrected gently, and Rick just curled up further. </p><p>“Bust my ass for a technicality. God, you’re just like me.” The words didn’t sound quite affectionate nor resentful, just coolly observant. “Shit, Morty, I don’t feel so good. You, you, you know it’s bad if I’m using stock lines.”</p><p>Morty thought about Beth bunched over the toilet and shaking. Rick had the same full body tremors. He was completely drenched in sweat and the leftover smell of something rancid, something that made Morty’s stomach curdle, but he didn’t stand to leave or even move away. “It’s withdrawal,” he offered. </p><p>Rick scoffed at him and rolled over so he was resting on his back. His eyes were screwed up tight as if he was trying to block out some sort of light within the overwhelming dark. “No shit it’s withdrawal. I’ve been an… been drinking longer than you’ve been alive, dumbass.” Morty didn’t know what to do with his hands, then, so he just reached for Rick’s arm and smoothed his fingers over the dirt-rough flesh. Rick didn’t startle from the touch. “You should go back to bed.” </p><p>Morty hoped his eye-roll was visible. He brushed his fingertips over the torn cuff of Rick’s blue shirt and hoped it left trace prints. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.” He left out the part about his concern. Rick wouldn’t want him waxing poetic over his dumbass pity. </p><p>“Then come down here and lay with me, you bastard. I’m <em> freezing,</em>” Rick gasped. It was so strangely vulnerable that Morty vaguely wondered if this was a dream hovering on the precipice of a nightmare, if Rick’s animalistic wailing was just the start of some kind of bodily horror that would stay burned in his brain even after he’d woken up. </p><p>It wouldn’t be the first time. </p><p>“I’m not a bastard.” </p><p>“Just like me,” Rick repeated, and Morty eyed him to make sure he didn’t start transforming into something awful. </p><p>Rick’s skin stayed firmly where it was. There was no grotesque snap of bone and he’d replaced his deep-throat cries with softly pained little sounds. Morty tried not to think about the smell when he slotted against Rick’s side, resting with his head on his broad shoulder. It was even easier to feel his body shake with effort like this and Morty sighed and reached for his hand without thinking. Rick took it without comment. Even with the worrisome vibration underneath him, Morty was just an exhausted kid and his anxiety could only carry him so far before his body shut it all down and gave out. He fell asleep with Rick scraping through his hair with his trembling fingers, murmuring, “just gotta make it to the morning,” against Morty’s curls. </p><p>—</p><p>They came across a calendar every once in awhile. Morty had looked on them with voyeuristic fascination at first. That sense of wonder came to an abrupt halt when he’d found a meticulous planner in the bedroom of one of their temporary houses and leafed through it eagerly, the prim handwriting creating something like an itch in his chest. </p><p>He didn’t know the exact date, but he knew when it had happened. It had been a Sunday. He knew because he’d been dreading the test he was meant to take that upcoming Monday. It was an alternately hilarious and disgusting thought. Of course karmic retribution would choose Morty Smith to punish disproportionately. Of course the world had to end so he didn’t have to take his fucking remedial algebra exam. He wasn’t sure if he’d been handed the better or worse option, honestly. At least he didn’t have to worry about graduating with a GPA over 2.3 anymore.</p><p>So he was reading the planner. It had a nice salmon-pink cover, and whoever had owned it had clearly spent lots of time on color coding their events and to-do lists in precise lettering. It had plenty of tasks checked off in the early pages. <em> Read U.S. History p. 87-102</em>. <em> Louise’s birthday </em>was penciled in for February 15. A recital of some sort, February 23. Morty had started to get the feeling that this was a bad idea. He kept flipping pages. The plans became sparse when he got to April, and there was only one thing scrawled in the full-page calendar of May. <em> Mother’s day brunch. </em>It had been a Sunday. </p><p>After that the pages went blank. Morty kind of lost his shit. He didn’t remember what he’d done to get Rick’s attention but as soon as he was within eyesight Morty launched into agitated yelling, just howling at the top of his lungs, and he couldn’t have cared less if he attracted something to their location. It would have been better than living with the crushing knowledge that there was nobody in the world besides himself and his awful, awful grandfather. Knowing that Rick was just as lost and clueless as Morty was. Getting in touch with the normalcy of <em> before </em> was that much harder to deal with when the man who only read textbooks to look up the common names of procedures he’d engineered on his own was right back on square one with his learning-disabled grandson. </p><p>Rick had listened to his tirade with beleaguered effort, holding Morty’s wrists in his blistered fingers. He hadn’t mocked or tried to shut him up besides quiet hushing when Morty raised his voice to uncomfortable decibels. </p><p>“Why us?” was the first thing he remembered himself saying. Rick rubbed his own nose, met Morty’s prey animal stare with what Morty recognized as the face he made when he was trying to be brave for the both of them. </p><p>“Because you and I, we’re the only ones who can handle it,” Rick said, and he pulled Morty against his chest as if that was all he needed to hear. </p><p>Morty didn’t think he could handle it. His eyes stung with dehydrated tears and heat and weariness. He was still in the filthy clothes he’d been wearing when Rick had told him they needed to start packing and get on the fucking road. His knees, back, and stomach <em> ached</em>, they all groaned in complaint every morning when he woke up. It had only been a couple weeks at that point and it made less sense every day why they even bothered to struggle for their lives when this was all they got in return. Canned peaches, twenty-dollar liquor, too much gear for the two of them to carry. Choices about what they should leave behind. </p><p>He sobbed into Rick’s equally grimy shirt for a few minutes and Rick allowed it without chewing him out for getting snot or stains on the fabric. </p><p>It had been awhile before he was able to say, “How much longer?”</p><p>It was sometimes hard to tell when things caught Rick with his hard-fought defenses down. Leaned against his body, Morty could feel him stiffen. It took him several moments to answer. “Not long,” he lied. </p><p>Morty let Rick hold him, let the platitude settle in his mind and Rick’s big hand on his shoulders dissolve the tantrum that was blocking his chest. He exhaled for the first time in two weeks. And he came to the shuddering realization that above all, despite everything, he <em> trusted </em>Rick. </p><p>—</p><p>They didn’t go back to the house. </p><p>They probably could have waited it out there. Morty had mentioned the blast shields and Rick told him with all the rancorous venom in his body that they wouldn’t work. He’d just kept loading up a little red cart with provisions, every muscle under his skin operating with intent. </p><p>“What about the lab? The, the underground one, I mean.”</p><p>“I can’t get it open.” </p><p>“Rick, are you sure we even have to do this? We don’t know-”</p><p>Rick had cut him off with a severe look, eyes narrowed in a way that sent Morty cowering and stepping further away. </p><p>“You should stop and think very hard before ever opening your mouth about what <em> I </em>don’t know,” he’d hissed, and the atypical clarity had tears forming in Morty’s eyes and real, frigid terror clawing at his chest. </p><p>He’d left without replying, padding back into the deserted landscape of their home. It was <em> normal </em>just like everything else was <em> normal. </em>The only indication anything was even slightly amiss was the emptiness filling the space of the low note that typically played from any electronics. There wasn’t any noise at all besides Rick throwing shit around in the garage. </p><p>He didn’t know exactly where he had meant to go but he ended up in Summer’s room. Her blanket had been kicked into a ball at the foot of the bed. She never bothered with a top sheet- waste of time, according to her- but her three pillows were gathered where she stacked them to sleep. He walked past the contained mess, looking over the undisturbed tidiness on her desk. </p><p>The only thing that was out of place was a little heart-shaped necklace on a matching silver chain. Morty thought about taking it. Instead of shoving it in his pocket like he wanted to, he turned back to the bed and started pulling the blanket into an orderly rectangle, draped over the sides of the mattress as evenly as he could manage. He propped the pillows according to size and sat dejectedly in Summer’s desk chair until he heard Rick calling for him from downstairs. </p><p>“We don’t have time for you to waste pounding one out,” he said as soon as Morty stepped into the living room. How typical of Rick to be able to track him even when his back was turned. He was at the bookshelf testing out false novels, opening their cut-out pages with worn patience and cursing every time whatever he expected to happen, didn’t. </p><p>Morty would have argued but he felt like saying he’d been making his presumably dead sister’s bed wasn’t much better. “What can I do to help?”</p><p>Rick shrugged, looked at him over his shoulder. “You could go get something to eat. Don’t bother with the, anything that requires a microwave. Or a stove.” </p><p>“Can I have ice cream?” Morty was suddenly gripped with the morbid realization that there was nobody besides Rick to tell him what constituted a balanced meal. He could have laughed. He remembered something Rick had told him once, something about how sometimes too much stress could override the brain and lull it into a sense of burnt-out security. </p><p>“I’m not sure you, you’re really grasping what’s going on here. It’s gonna be all melted.” Morty didn’t drop his hopeful pout and Rick waved him towards the kitchen with obvious exasperation. “Knock yourself out, Morty.”</p><p>So Morty had fixed them both bowls of almost fully melted mint chip ice cream. He’d brought them back to the living room and held one out to Rick, who took it with the same reluctance he accepted any kind of <em> gesture. </em>They’d eaten in silence on the couch- something else Beth would have objected to- and left the dishes on the coffee table without a word about it. Rick had stood to his towering height and wiped his hands on his coat. </p><p>“Time to go,” he’d said authoritatively, and Morty’s heart free-fell off a steep cliff. </p><p>“Can I get something first, Rick?” He tried not to let the shake in his voice carry too far out. </p><p>To his surprise, Rick nodded and didn’t kick up much of a fuss. “<em>Hurry</em>, Morty, ‘cause I’m out that door in five minutes.” </p><p>Morty had returned to Summer’s room. He noticed that he’d left her chair askew so he pushed it back into the space by her desk. He waited just a moment before he took the necklace, then in a rare stroke of ingenuity he unclasped it to wreathe the cold chain twice around his wrist. He headed back out and fought hard not to look at Beth and Jerry’s room down the hall. </p><p>Their door was closed. Small victories, he supposed, and scurried back down the stairs before Rick could prove what an asshole he was and bail. He’d done it before. </p><p>Rick was in the open garage, looking at the heaps of newly-scrapped metal that he’d spent countless years tweaking to his liking. Even the things that hadn’t come from Earth were rendered completely fucked, and Morty knew from the heavy atmosphere that he shouldn’t ask about it no matter how his mind burned with the need to understand. He shouldn’t say anything at all. </p><p>Morty saw the way he looked at his portal gun, even weeks and weeks after they’d started traveling. It was the way Morty looked at Summer’s locket, in private moments that they both hoped the other wouldn’t see.</p><p>That night they’d left their life behind, that was the first time they’d come across a mutation. It was down the street from the house on Mrs. Spencer’s lawn. He had screamed along with the creature and Rick had put a bullet in its teeth and then dragged Morty away because he couldn’t open his eyes or even move. It wasn’t the gore as much as the fear that he’d see something he recognized, dead. And it was the squelch of bile and blood under the soles of his shoes. They hadn’t even been that dirty before, just a little faded from constant wear. </p><p>They still didn’t know where the fuckers were coming from. </p><p>—</p><p>Morty didn’t really miss video games anymore. He felt like he’d probably done enough looting and mindless grinding for an entire lifetime. The current narrative had no end in sight, no progress bar, no quests nor friendly NPCs along the road. Just him and Rick and unmapped territory. Just their aimless movements made under cover of darkness through the open world roguelike hell that never stopped spawning tribulations. Dwindling inventory space and speed debuffs and never, ever leveling up. So much for instant gratification. </p><p>He did miss TV. The world ended on a Sunday. <em> The Bachelor </em> aired on Mondays so it was forcibly cancelled on a cliffhanger. Morty didn’t really care about watching the finale considering most of the pairs just split up directly after production, he just wished he’d known who would have won the seasonal betting pool (it was never Beth). He missed Rick griping about how anyone with more brain cells than Jerry could see how fake and cloying that reality TV shit was. Emotionally stunted adults playacting at chemical attachments. (The last bit was punctuated with a pointed look at the obvious targets.)</p><p>He wished he could hear music. He thought about asking Rick to find him a working CD player, but then, he wasn’t sure that those existed anymore. If they didn’t, Rick would probably bitch at him for asking about something he’d already implicitly explained. The world was so noiseless and Morty could no longer relieve the itch of having a song stuck in his head through listening to it, couldn’t distract himself from the distantly looping rhythms with other sounds that drowned them out. The nights were deadened and dull and restless. It reminded him of how he’d tossed and turned in the vacuum of the universe without the rumble of cars on the road. All things considered, he should have been more familiar with alienation. </p><p>If he couldn’t handle the nights he snuck into whatever lean-to bed that Rick set up for himself. Usually the old man just stayed awake through the night with his flask in hand, his long legs splayed out on whatever he could drape himself over, shoulders hunched. Tonight, his stubble was starting to dust over his chin and he was flicking a lighter absently. Morty thought he looked rugged and handsome, like some classic action hero. A smirking soldier watching over his platoon. </p><p>He fell against Rick’s body silently. They’d both slimmed down but gained lean muscle and Morty appreciated the wiry strength coiled just under his surface, winding like a viper. The flame cast campfire flickers over his fingers. </p><p>“You know, Rick, I wish I knew who won <em> The Bachelor</em>.” He was the first to break the silence. </p><p>Rick glanced at him from the corner of his eye and snickered. “Don’t you, don’t go telling anyone I said it, but I do too.” </p><p>They laughed softly together and Rick handed Morty the flask. It wasn’t the first time ever, but it was the first time in the new universe they occupied. He accepted it and grimaced at the concentrated smell of mixed spirits. Rick patted him on the back when he swallowed and only sputtered a little bit, and said “al<em>riiight</em>, Morty!” when he went back for more. </p><p>It wasn’t much but it loosened him up enough to push his head into Rick’s neck and drink his scent down deep. Rick didn’t discourage him, so Morty dragged his nose over the flexed tendons and his slowly-pulsing jugular. Their hearts set a benevolent tempo, not quite in time, but complementary. “I wish I remembered the last song I heard.” </p><p>“I do.” Rick sucked down the rest of what was in the flask. His white tank top was tattered and stained. In another dimension he was the star of some boring movie about Vietnam and Morty had a misplaced crush on him. </p><p>“Can you, would you sing it for me?” </p><p>Rick cracked his neck and laughed again. He wrapped his arm around Morty and his fingers around Morty’s hip, pulling him in closer. His voice was never good when he sang; Morty hadn’t heard it that often but it was raspy like an old motor and lower than the smokiest note in an expensive whiskey. He didn’t recognize the song, but it felt fulfilling to hear anything besides gruff orders and nails-on-chalkboard screaming and nothing at all. </p><p>It was obvious that Rick didn’t know all the words and he’d never been able to carry a tune. He rubbed sweet-tempered circles into Morty’s hipbone while he lilted through the song. The only lyrics Morty could really pick out were, <em> strangers on this road we are on; we are not two, we are one</em>, and he made the decision to lean up and touch his lips chastely to Rick’s after he sang them. </p><p>Their mouths set a placid tempo, not quite in time, but complementary. </p><p>— </p><p>Their luck ran out. </p><p>Even before all this, Morty kind of expected it to happen one day. He knew they’d be caught unaware and trapped in a situation that Rick couldn’t chessmaster his way out of. He and Rick needed to win <em> every time. </em>Their enemy of the week only needed to win once. </p><p>They were low on bullets and energy because it had been a night where Morty’s thoughts had lingered too much on <em> The Bachelor </em> and Mother’s day brunches and unmade beds. Even crawling into Rick’s tight embrace and fervent kisses hadn’t stopped the steely guilt in his stomach. They’d spent the night not talking about it, Morty flushed with anxiety and Rick running cold as ever; he was bushed and needed rest but Morty knew he wasn’t sure how to fall asleep anymore without help from some kind of substance. He’d dozed off for a bit, Morty could tell, but he was always a light sleeper. Muscle memory from his days as an intergalactic rebel. </p><p><em> God, how many doomsdays had Rick already lived through? </em> </p><p>The mutation got the jump on them. He didn’t know how he let his mind wander to the point that he missed the caterwaul. Maybe, he thought, they were finally evolving past that obvious tell. </p><p>He was knocked on his back and Rick was in full force, shifting to a wider stance so he could throw his weight on the creature. “A knife, Morty, whenever you get the chance,” he grunted as Morty tried to shake off the whiplash and find what he was looking for among their supplies. Rick and his adversary struggled and Morty managed to transfer the sharp blade to his hands. At the same time the creature sunk its too-blunt for comfort teeth into the fleshy part of Morty’s forearm, and his ensuing yowl attracted two more mutations to the scene. “Fuck!” Rick thrashed and kicked when <em> he </em> was bitten and with the strength he found in sheer rage he forced the knife through the monster’s wrinkled, spotted skin. “Your <em> gun, </em>Morty!” There was a big, bleeding wound on his neck and three rows of clawmarks slashed into his stomach. </p><p>Morty fumbled for the semi-automatic pistol at his thigh and fired it, aiming for one of their new friends’ skulls. He missed. The recoil sent throes licking through the oozing bite mark on his arm and he doubled over, taking a moment to whimper before he aimed and fired again, and again. </p><p>His head throbbed. It was the loudest cacophony of noises that he’d heard in months, and he shook and cried and aimed for the third, trying his damndest not to shoot Rick in the shoulder. The bullet was their last. </p><p>The monster dropped dead on the overgrown grass and Morty fell too, knees thudding roughly against the earth. He was surprised when Rick joined him. Their hands reached ardently, grasping for familiar skin, lips chasing the taste of adrenaline, and comfort, and desperate adoration. “Are you gonna be,” he said, but dropped it when Rick trailed hot kisses down his neck. It almost took his mind off the throbbing pain that came from just-festering infection. He moaned. </p><p>“Shut, just shut the fuck up, Morty, we’re gonna be, we’re<em> fine,</em>” Rick panted, his chapped and dirty hands on Morty’s back, pulling their torsos against each other. Morty sighed and grabbed his thin wrist. He brought Rick’s hand to his groin, held him there to ease up on some of the anguished arousal he was haphazardly building. </p><p>“Need you, Rick.” Rick responded to his distress with a nod and his adept fingers tugging down Morty’s rusted zipper, just enough for his half-hard cock to stand vaguely at attention in the still evening air. He licked his palm and took Morty in hand. His frantic strokes <em> hurt </em>but the intensity of it all was toe-curling, and Morty was kind of a budding masochist anyways. He just rode out the enveloping wave of emotion with his head tipped back and his mouth wheezing out embarrassing words like, “can’t believe we made it,” and, “glad you’re safe.” He managed to reach for Rick through the heady feeling, freed and wrapped his hand around his robust heat, and Rick sighed and rolled his hips up into the touch. They both graciously ignored how disgusting they were. </p><p>Morty tried to be quiet but it was the best thing he’d felt in weeks, even with the low ebb of unintentional sadism in the gesture. For some reason he hadn’t felt much like jerking off recently, so Rick’s calloused hand was like preserved fruit, and fully-stocked grocery stores, and chocolate and caramel, and winning a shitty reality show. His hushed “oh, Morty,” was as close to music as Morty could remember. Morty came into his hand and muffled his whine in Rick’s mouth, drawing him in for a sparking kiss while he spilled and melted and fell apart. </p><p>Rick followed suit soon after. He bumped their foreheads together and they breathed hard, because oh god, they were <em> still alive to breathe</em>. He was suddenly very aware that there was no running water anywhere in the world. Rick wiped his hand off on his stained slacks and Morty made a face. “Don’t h-high road me here, Morty, they were already fucked,” Rick said.</p><p>“Some things don’t stop being gross, Rick.” </p><p>He wiped his hand in the grass. Rick grit his teeth and frowned with the corner of his mouth while Morty grabbed his canteen and sipped sparingly. “That can’t- we can’t let our guards down again. We need shelter, so. Start hauling ass.” </p><p>When they found a home, Rick pushed him into the bathroom and made him sit on the toilet lid. Morty protested but Rick attended to his wounds first- “Not my first fuckin’ rodeo. Shut up so I can <em> help</em>, kid.”- and he left a promising kiss on Morty’s lips when he was all done. Morty rested his head on Rick’s hip while he disinfected his neck in the mirror and barely winced through the whole process. They both looked a little worse for the wear, but Morty felt warm satisfaction at the thought that they were a matching set. Stumbling and falling didn’t seem so awful, as long as Rick was right there with him. </p><p>—</p><p>Morty thought hard about disproportionate retribution. His first instinct was to believe that this was unjust castigation for imagined sins. There was no way he deserved to be thrown headfirst into the endless wailing void when his worst crime was sacrificing a few lives on the road to saving the entire galaxy. He and Rick were heroes; antiheroes, even, but heroes nonetheless. They were those cowboy outlaw types whose valiant ends justified their cruel means. </p><p>He was on his knees with his nose being tickled by Rick’s pubic hair when he started to realize that was a pretty warped worldview. </p><p>His mind wandered from Rick’s hand on the back of his neck to the room filled with vials upon vials of his sordid mistakes. Of times he placed Rick over the universe. Morty liked to think his parents had instilled him with decent values. See, until Rick had come along, Morty had pretty firmly believed in good guys and bad guys. Cops and robbers. Cowboys and insensitive stereotypes of Native Americans. He liked stories with objective protagonists and big damn kisses played straight.</p><p>Rick liked subversive media. He was always quick to remind Morty that there were corrupt cops and noble criminals, that history was dashed through and then rewritten by the winning team. He’d proven his point through action; morality was a lot more relative when they were on the run from interplanetary law enforcement and being shot at by Gromflomites for their latest felony. Morty thought about it on the way home in the spaceship, breathless and probably a little traumatized. <em> Would you steal a loaf of bread to feed your starving family? </em> </p><p>Morty was getting better at swallowing. It was the cleanest way to deal with the aftermath of their liaisons, and it was worth it for the way it made Rick smile and tousle his brown hair with an “attaboy, baby.” Neither of them had really cared for horror movies- Morty was quick to tire of Rick chiding the genre tropes and claiming that he saw the twists coming from a mile away- but he thought of naked, writhing starlets becoming torture victims after committing depraved acts in front of the camera. There was more than one way to defile a body. </p><p>The Morty in his mind was the virginal final girl, fighting for her life in the rubble of the debauched world. When he ran his tongue along his lips and thought of all the bodily fluids he’d spilled for Rick, he felt like he’d been the killer all along. </p><p>They lay together in companionable silence, Morty rubbing at the slow-healing lacerations on Rick’s abdomen. Rick was a first act villain. Somewhere along the way, Morty had made a face-heel turn for him. </p><p>Maybe he really did deserve Rick and all of… this. But then, maybe Rick deserved him too. </p><p>—</p><p>“What made those things, Rick?”</p><p>Rick gingerly touched his low-grade infection and sneered. “Haven’t we been over this?”</p><p>“I thought you might have some new ideas. You’re always talking about, you know, sh-shifting perspectives in science.” Morty hated that he was starting to think of the old-lady house as home. Its former inhabitant clearly had a penchant for blue floral wallpaper and hideous wood paneling. At the very least, the pantry was well-stocked and the liquor cabinet was previously unraided. (Rick made quick work of righting that wrong.) </p><p>He shrugged, dug out unguent from the peeling medicine cabinet. Morty was embarrassed by his reaction to the slight oil shine that it left on his ashy neck. He recalled curvaceous driftwood, laughed privately. “Act of God,” Rick responded finally. </p><p>Morty balked. It must have been a cold fucking day in Hell. “There is no god.” He had been stropping a knife against Rick’s belt, which he held under his heel while he worked. Rick had insisted that they take stock of all the weapons and their conditions while they were resting; Morty got saddled with the maintenance. They were out guns until they found somewhere with ammo and they weren’t willing to take chances. “Maybe the Devil.” </p><p>“I met that fuckin’ guy a-a-and I kicked his ass, sweetie.” Rick’s sullen boast belied the core of the issue: that Rick may have been worse than Satan, but whatever was going on outside was worse than <em> Rick</em>. He turned his head to inspect Morty’s handiwork. “Not bad. You, usually you’d sharpen it first, but. Good improv.” He sorted through the medical supplies until he found painkillers, dry-swallowed five capsules. Morty didn’t say anything about that. It’d start an unnecessary argument, and he was content to let their relationship ride smoothly these days. </p><p>“Thanks, Rick. How much longer?” </p><p>“Just a few more days.” </p><p>He’d been enjoying the down-time and the close quarters they were sharing, but knew that Rick always felt most like himself when he was active duty. In a way, rising to that impossible level was what made him the Morty-est Morty. </p><p>—</p><p>‘A few more days’ turned into ‘until they’d run out of food besides the nonperishables they put aside for the road’. Morty stopped counting sunrises because he spent most mornings figuring out the best ways to make Rick come. Rick halfheartedly groused about their depleting water supply but he never stopped Morty, just told him how good he was, returned the favor. </p><p>They were getting ready to leave again. Morty had grown accustomed to the place, though, and he found himself toying with the doilies that inexplicably lined almost every surface therein. Rick caught him sighing fondly at the end table to the left of the dusty pink chaise lounge. </p><p>“Almost ready?”</p><p>Morty shook his head and crossed the hallway towards him, fitting their bodies together with his arms loosely around Rick’s waist. He looked down at the brand new scar tissue on his torso. “What if you’re not?” </p><p>It was said without much forethought and it hung in the air around them. Morty braced for Rick to lower his voice and get mad, but when Rick spoke it was with tolerant kindness and a warm hand on Morty’s shoulder. “Morty, if I- if I waited until I was ready for much of anything, it’d never get done.” </p><p>For all the obsequies Rick performed for his emotions, he was fairly transparent to Morty. Getting him to actually <em> talk </em> about what he felt was a different story, though, and Morty was infinitely appreciative for the moment. He didn’t miss the gallows humor- after all, it had taken an entire rapture for Rick to be upfront about his psyche. He stood on his toes to kiss him. </p><p>“It’s been kinda nice to just be with you and all,” he murmured delicately against Rick’s lips.</p><p>Rick snorted. “Yeah, baby, we had a real, r-real nice little honeymoon.” </p><p>Morty hoped he couldn’t feel his heart flutter. He drew away to pull Summer’s necklace off his wrist and held it in his palm. It wasn’t polished silver anymore, it was tarnished with a coating of dirt and grime and a dried splash of oxygenated blood. It reflected a twisted vision of Morty that he didn’t much want to see. He tugged at Rick’s hand and laid the little heart inside it, the chain hanging between his open fingers. </p><p>He smiled when Rick clasped it around his neck without a word. They shared a sincere kiss, fingers entwined, and when they parted Rick grinned wolfishly down at Morty, heart on his chest. “Let’s go, I don’t know, show the hordes of evil what the fuck they reckoned with. Rick and Morty against the fuckin’ apocalypse.” </p><p>“Rick and Morty,” Morty agreed. </p><p>Rick and Morty ‘til the bitter end. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hey! i was, for some reason, inspired to torture rick and morty with the end of the world. so i wrote the longest thing i have in ever! it's so fun to explore the two of them. i love them so so much. there are definitely gaps between logic in this fic and canon logic, but listen, it’s fine. </p><p>the song rick sings to morty is strangers by the kinks. the title is from simple man by lynyrd skynyrd! </p><p>this is very... i don't know. very prose-y. i hope the metaphor i tried to sprinkle throughout was understandable, hehe. and i'm still working on nailing their characters, especially poor morty! i have a longer, slower burn fic in the works that with any luck i'll finish soon. in the meantime, i really hope you enjoy my works! comments make me way too happy, but really, just having people read what i wrote is v gratifying. i’m tumblr user rickestmortys so if you want to yell at me there, feel free! &lt;3 thank you so very much!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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